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... linking. No chanting. Just breathe—his own—and the quiet, clean sound of razors being washed in cold water.

They always cleaned their tools. That was the worst part. The care they took.

Viktor didn't move. Couldn't, really, with both arms pinned to the wall, wrists locked against carved stone. He couldn't feel his legs. Didn't know if they were still attached or just numb.

He could smell iron. His blood and something foul beneath it—preserved rot, the stink of old magic a ...

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